The Stones and the Roses
by bookbug87
Summary: The story of a man's pride undone by stones and a woman's prejudice erased by roses.
1. Chapter 1: The First Stone

**Author's note**: All characters belong to Jane Austen. (Thank you, Jane!) The story is canon up until Darcy leaves Netherfield for London the second time, having brought Bingley to Netherfield, but unsure of Elizabeth's affections. Lydia is married to Wickham, but has not made her sisters aware of Darcy's involvement. This story is rated M for Mature. Without too many spoilers, the story contains: heartbreak, profanity, steamy scenes, danger, betrayal, deception, disbelief, and at _least _one wedding at the end.

Important Notes:

\- I have taken a few artistic liberties with some historical details. (For example, the Duke of Marlborough and Blenheim Palace are real things! But, so far as I know, nobody carried out the plot my story suggests).

\- At times, the story focuses on different characters (including a few not exactly canon characters), so there will be some jumping around.

\- At least one of the characters is mentioned as speaking French. I don't actually speak French, so if some of the phrases wouldn't translate well, just pretend it's the loose (or _very _loose) English translation of whatever would be appropriate.

\- There are a few Easter eggs/shout outs to other Jane Austen works! As of 7/23, I have 2. See if you can spot them!

\- This is a work in progress, so while my destination and certain points are fixed, the chapters themselves seem to be determined to wander about. As it is a longer work, breaks between chapters posting could take awhile. At least for now, I highly recommend reading (at minimum) the first six chapters.

Please, no spoilers in the comments. =) Otherwise, all questions, comments, and critiques are welcome.

We begin our story in Hertfordshire.

Chapter One: The First Stone

**June 20, 1814**

_Hertfordshire_

He stared at the stone, for once completely incapable of word or thought. He was not accustomed to being in such a state of paralysis. He found it exceedingly uncomfortable but had no notion of how he might free himself from it. The dampness on his face was not _entirely_ from the sky's persistent drizzle, but nobody was around to observe him, so he made no attempt to conceal the depth of his emotion. He was uncertain whether such obscuring would have been possible under the circumstances, even for him, regardless of whether anyone else was there or not, but his natural reticence left him more than a little relieved to stand here and be overlooked. The tall, thin man was also unused to being thus ignored, but found it to be a welcome respite, especially in the present moment.

The stone had words. Of course it had words. All the others did. Why would this stone be any different? Why wouldn't it have words? Surely, they should be very significant words. Out of morbid curiosity, he counted them: 15 words, if one counted numbers as words. Otherwise, it was 9 words and four sets of numbers. He could easily understand the words, but despite their simplicity, he was having the most difficult time comprehending the reality of them. It couldn't possibly be true. What cruel person could think such a lie and then engrave it in stone for everyone to see? Who would dare place such an appalling blasphemy in a churchyard? He forced himself to read the text on the stone again.

_Elizabeth Abigail Bennet. April 14, 1793-June 17, 1814. Dearly beloved daughter, sister, and friend. _

The man mentally added: _And most ardently loved by the greatest fool who ever lived, an excellent idiot of the first water who never realized her true value until it was too late, one Fitzwilliam George Alexander Darcy_. _Not that my admiration did either one of us any favors or brought anyone involved anything except grief. _Still in deep shock, he crouched down, touching the gray rock. The stone was gray, the ground was gray, the mist wrapped the far away trees and church in a gray haze, and even the clouds overhead were ponderously gray. It seemed fitting, for all the color was leeched out of the world without her in it. He closed his eyes, seeing in his memory every blot and stain of Bingley's inelegant and incomplete missive.

_Darcy – _

_Terrible news. Carriage accident – Miss Elizabeth. I am so sorry. Please come._

_Bingley_

On receipt of that message, Darcy had returned to Hertfordshire straight from London, nearly taking the wind out of his horse, but she had already been buried by the time he arrived. Darcy discovered that, due to the nature of the accident, the undertaker had had the unenviable task of explaining to the Bennet family that the body had not been left in a presentable state. Swift burial was the best course, and Mr. Bennet had seen to it. In their grief, the Bennets were . . . well, Darcy could not yet bring himself to call upon them, so he did not actually _know_, but he could imagine well enough, could envision what might have befallen Pemberley had it been Georgiana. Bingley _had _visited them, and though Darcy had not asked, his friend's demeanor afterwards was enough for Darcy to understand that they were all truly heartbroken.

At the moment, Darcy could bear no one else's sorrow. He was in agony enough. _Not that it really matters,_ Darcy thought. _Nothing else really matters now. She is gone. _He felt like, having been locked in a dim and dusty room, meeting Elizabeth Bennet had been the equivalent of stepping into a well-lit parlor. The experience had been a little blinding at first, but when his eyes had adjusted, he had been delighted and warmed. Now, it was as if the fire was out, the candles were snuffed, and he was thrust back into the dark and dank prison of his soul. _Only it is worse now – because I have had a vision of what life _**_could _**_be, what _**_could _**_have been, had I not been such an arrogant, judgmental, narrow-minded ass._

With great difficulty, Darcy turned his mind away from self-loathing and to the present reality. He contemplated again the gray slab in front of him. The stone was well cut and easily legible, if somewhat rough. Darcy wondered if it would be interference to quietly purchase a better stone, and reluctantly decided against the idea, only because it would require him to explain himself and thus create further wounds in her family. Striving to understand what he knew was inherently senseless, Darcy counted and felt each of the 87 characters of the engraving under his hand.

_Elizabeth Abigail Bennet. April 14, 1793-June 17, 1814. Dearly beloved daughter, sister, and friend. _

He softly sighed. _She obtained her majority just after we parted in Kent. We could have been married at the Pemberley chapel by special license and no one could have stopped us, if I had been fortunate enough to win her hand. _It rippled through him, or perhaps ripped through him, how young and vibrant she had been, how much her passing would leave unaccomplished in her life – no husband, no children, not even nieces or nephews, only one completely worthless brother-in-law. He tried not to think of his culpability in _that_ matter. He only succeeded in turning his mind to the fact that the possibilities Elizabeth Bennet would have been capable of were endless. To have the potential of a full bloom destroyed before the bud could flower seemed unusually cruel, even for a world that Darcy was well aware could be nasty, brutish, and short.

Yet, despite her youth, her often imprudent family members, and the lack of any finishing touches that living in London might have produced, Elizabeth had comported herself with the maturity and forbearance of a countess in everything she did. She walked with lightness, she talked with wit, and she definitely danced with grace. Further, she had refused to display the barest hint of discourtesy while others of not even half her worth had dared to unfairly belittle her. Even when he had been purposefully humiliating her during his proposal, she had retained her elegance to the end. He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said, feeling suddenly ridiculous to be standing on formality as he continued to kneel there, at her grave, especially when his voice came out with a quaking tone. He tried again, giving himself permission to say her Christian name, at least this once, and his voice was stronger. "Elizabeth, I . . . I know you cannot hear me now, but I wish to say . . . I am sorry. You were right. About everything you said to me in Kent. I wish I had told you that I realized it at last, that I was trying to prove to you the kind of man I was, to let you sketch my character as an honorable man. And I wish you had never had cause to say those things in the first place – I wish I had never let my arrogance, my conceit, and my selfish disdain for the feelings of others come between us. I wish I had not interfered with Bingley and that I had put an end to the vulturine schemes I knew full well Wickham was capable of before he came here. But, most of all, I wish I had courted you properly, I wish I had paid you the proper attentions from the moment we met, I wish I had behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. Oh, Elizabeth, I cannot tell you how much I wish there had been a way I could have addressed you that would have convinced you how much I love you and obtained your regard in return."

How long he remained there in that manner, he could not tell, but at length, Darcy heard noises. Looking up, he saw the Bennets, still far away, undoubtedly heading towards the spot he currently occupied. They were quiet, for the Bennet family anyway, and Darcy knew that alone was a signifier of their suffering. Knowing he had barely any right to be here and certainly no right whatsoever to intrude upon _their _grief, which for sheer virtue of having known her longer and better was undoubtedly even greater than his, he quickly walked away before they could see him, heedless of where he went, so long as he saw no one.

Much later, after having wandered he knew not where, Darcy all but dragged himself up the steps of Netherfield just as the first stars appeared in a patch of clear sky. The house was drab and hushed – almost in a state of expectation for something more. Darcy knew it to be a false representation. _How can there be anything more, anything else, without her here? _He saw a bit of light in the study and was not surprised to find Richard and Bingley waiting for his return, talking quietly, both a bit red-eyed themselves. Darcy said not a single word, only grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and walked out, aiming his feet directly to his bedroom.

He heard the familiar noise of Richard following him and Darcy had not the strength for arguing. Especially not when he had the goddamned misfortune to cross paths with Caroline Bingley just before he reached the privacy and safety of his quarters. Had he been a gambling man, and had he found anyone willing to take such a risk, he would have bet she had been waiting for him, to offer him her version of comfort. She turned her eyes to him in what she plainly thought was an alluring fashion. "Darcy – you're here. I'm sure you will be such a comfort to Charles. What a tragedy for the Bennets."

The obvious cloying insincerity of _her_, mingled with _his_ heartbreak and anger, combined in a deadly storm that he just managed to restrain. "Tragedy is not the appropriate word for it, Miss Bingley," Darcy said, seething, as he gained his room with Richard close behind. "I believe a more fitting one would be catastrophe." He slammed and locked the door once he and Richard were inside. _She has no right, none whatsoever, to pretend sadness and empathy now. She is a viper and I would never trust the succor she offered in her arms. What the hell was I thinking when I maligned Elizabeth to _**_her_**_?_

Slumping down in the nearest chair, Darcy managed to open the bottle in his hand almost unconsciously and drank from it without need of glass. His cousin said nothing, simply took a nearby chair, and drew out his hip flask. After his cousin and he had commiserated in silent drinking for awhile, there was an uncertain, timid knock. Darcy glanced at Richard, who unbarred the door to see who dared such a disturbance.

"Bingley – I think now is not the time. He is not in a mood for company, not even yours."

Bingley said the three words he thought held any hope of gaining access to his obviously distraught friend. "I brought brandy." He lifted the unopened bottle for Richard to see.

Richard raised an eyebrow and glanced at Darcy. Darcy shrugged and made a beckoning gesture. _It hardly matters now. Nothing matters now. _Bingley ended up standing, partly due to a lack of chairs, and partly, Darcy assumed, to contemplate his typically stoic friend's grief. Bingley opened the brandy and Darcy took it, discarding the now empty whiskey bottle. The trio sat in continued silence, though Darcy remained the only one drinking.

"I did not know you thought so well of Miss Elizabeth, Darcy." Bingley's calm tone at last reverberated through the hush.

Darcy slowly rubbed one of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I know. I took great care my feelings went unnoticed." He did not exert himself to keep the bite of bitterness out of his voice. "Despite my abhorrence of every sort of disguise, I nonetheless seem to have acquired great skill at dissembling to others and a very prodigious one for concealment from myself."

"Darcy, you did the best you could," Richard said, with a tone of sympathy. "The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing. That's either Plato or Pascal, I can never remember which."

"It is Pascal," Darcy said, continuing to rub his forehead. "And I am well aware at what the caprices of my heart have led me to, for all the good it does me to have its singular object in the grave."

Bingley's eyes widened. "I knew you _admired _her, but what is this about your _heart_?"

"Not _now_, Charles," Darcy said, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. His tone came out much harsher than he intended, and he softened his voice. "Please – some other time, perhaps – but not now. She is gone – she is dead. And so, it makes no difference anyway."


	2. Chapter 2: Planting

Chapter Two: Planting

**June 25, 1814**

_Hertfordshire_

Simon's bones groaned as he moved about in the hours of the early dawn, reminding him he was no longer a young lad. Despite his advancing age, he still felt his work as a gardener was the best work God could give a man – to be out in the sun and the rain, to enjoy the beauty of the natural world, and to encourage the growth of living things were, in Simon's opinion, some of the highest callings you could have. And to be at Pemberley, where the emphasis was on natural beauty rather than artificial folderol or any passing fads – well, there was a reason Simon was perfectly content to live out his days as chief gardener there.

But there were times, Simon knew, even at his beloved, almost enchanted Pemberley garden, when you had to let the ground lie fallow, to trust in the dormant seed, and to bury your hopes in the ground for another day. Simon had done so when his first child, a beautiful girl, had died of consumption, and then again when his wife of thirty years passed from age. And Simon was observant enough to know that Mr. Darcy was having one of those seasons.

When Mr. Darcy had sent for him by express, along with the wish to transplant some of the best rose bushes that Pemberley had to offer, Simon had not been sure that such a task was wise, nor that it was even possible to move them such a long distance. He had filled the carriage with carefully dug up bushes and large bowls of water, along with his gardening tools. Small wonder his preparations had attracted the notice of the young mistress Miss Darcy, who had insisted on coming as well, in the company of Simon, her maid, and the roses.

After he, the young mistress, the maid, and the roses had arrived at Netherfield, Simon assumed the roses were for that property, as a gift for Mr. Bingley's taking that property as his own. When his master had awoken him early this morning, finding himself instead planting the roses at the grave site of a young woman Simon had heard of only once before was quite a surprise, but he was not one to question the master's decisions. Well, not usually, anyway.

Simon turned his attention back to the matter at hand. As firmly as he dared, he said, "Mr. Darcy, begging your pardon, sir, but it's not really appropriate for a man of your station to get your hands dirty, sir."

"I'm aware of what my station is, Simon, and that my hands will get dirty."

"They may also get pricked, sir, from the thorns."

"I am aware of that, too. It does not change my decision."

"Miss Darcy will be very displeased if you're harmed, sir," Simon said, feeling a little desperate.

"Perhaps. But I still insist on being the one to place the bushes."

Simon sighed slightly. "Well, sir, you know best. But please let me do the rest of it – you may harm the plants or their growth." Mr. Darcy grudgingly agreed, and Simon bustled about before the master could change his mind. He dug the holes, guided the placement of the plants, replaced the dirt, and ensured they were watered. Particular care was paid to the two bushes on each side of the stone. Once they were planted, Mr. Darcy then tied some of the branches with soft cloth and affixed the cloth to the stone. Several moments later, the deed was done and both Simon and Mr. Darcy dusted the dirt from their hands.

Simon mentally allowed that it did not yet look like much – such was always the way of bringing new life into the world. The plants would need time to cover the ground and time to bend to the shape of the stone. But, eventually, the grave site would be covered with the best roses Pemberley could offer, with two plants entwined around the headstone that read _Elizabeth Abigail Bennet. April 14, 1793-June 17, 1814. Dearly beloved daughter, sister, and friend. _Simon also noted the very little color in the churchyard. _The roses will be a bright spot in a dim place._

As Simon gathered his gardening equipment, he saw Mr. Darcy touch the stone, feeling the inscription under his hand. Simon remembered the days that Pemberley had buried Lady Anne Darcy, George Darcy, Sarah Wickham, the former George Wickham, and the days that Simon had buried his child and his wife. Mr. Darcy had been there each time, and though the master had not been unaffected, on none of those occasions could Simon recall him staring at the stone as if attempting to commune with the dearly departed. Averting his eyes and pretending he did not see, Simon _did _wonder exactly who this Elizabeth Abigail Bennet had been, and why it was that the master would go to such trouble for an acquaintance who had only even visited Pemberley once, but he was certain it would be worth more than his position to ask.

Also worth wondering without asking was how much trouble the roses might cause. In such a small neighborhood, there was bound to be speculation when they were noticed. Simon doubted whether Mr. Darcy was very concerned about that. That meant Simon was not to be worried about it either. Simon worried about other things – like the master insisting Simon take the carriage and he would walk. But again, the master had his own way. "Simon, I wish to walk alone for awhile in the presence of my own thoughts. And you have done enough work for me this morning. I'm very grateful, so please, take it. You'll need it for the equipment anyway."

While riding in the carriage, Simon did some quiet reflecting on the previous night. When Miss Darcy had walked in to Netherfield just before Simon, she had gone straight for her brother.

"Fitzwilliam, what is the matter?" She had asked in alarm, on seeing his drawn face and bloodshot eyes.

Mr. Darcy had not been able to speak, not even to answer his sister. Eventually, Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken pity on his cousin. "Miss Elizabeth passed away from a carriage accident."

Miss Darcy had been truly distraught to learn of Miss Elizabeth's death, coming to her brother for comfort with a soft cry. Not knowing what else to do, Mr. Darcy had held his sister, but Simon was not overly surprised it was the young mistress who had ended up comforting the master. "I am sorry, I am so, so sorry, Fitzwilliam."

Simon _had_ been shocked, shocked enough to momentarily stop his leaving for the servant room, to see the glistening specks in Miss Darcy's hair. He had never before seen the like from Mr. Darcy. It was quite clear that, whoever this Miss Elizabeth had been, she was beloved by the Darcy family. And that alone was enough to make Simon glad he had been so careful about the transportation of the roses.

Though usually a closed mouth man and not given to servant gossip, last night Simon had asked Darcy's valet, a man named Caldwell, about the status of the master. Without speaking a single word out of turn or gossiping, Simon understood that Caldwell was worried. Considering Caldwell had also seen several burials, fires, and calamities like horse escapes without so much as a quiver, Simon wondered what problem Mr. Darcy could face that his money and status could not eliminate.

Shaking his head, Simon was glad to quit the carriage. He had just finished putting away his equipment and making sure the carriage was clean of any dirt when he saw the master walk to the door, looking as if he would rather still be at the grave site. Curious beyond anything he had been before, Simon unobtrusively walked to the flower beds by one of the open windows and began attending to the weeds.

Simon heard the voice of Miss Bingley waft through the window like a pungent smell. "Darcy, _there_ you are. Dearest Georgiana was beginning to get a bit worried! Such a sweet sister you have. She told me all about your plan to call upon the Bennet family this afternoon. Excuse me, Darcy, but are you _certain_ that's the _wisest _action? From the little Charles has said, they are nigh inconsolable. And, well, _really _Darcy, you know how _they _are on the _best_ of days. You hardly _know _them. Certainly nobody would _blame _you if you chose not to go. Is that _really _what you wish to expose Georgiana to?"

A rather long pause followed that before Simon heard the master at last respond to Miss Bingley, decisively and sufficiently, in three words. "Yes, I do."

"Oh," she said, sounding nettled and doubtful. "Well," she continued, after a pause, "I'm sure you know what you're about. And the Bennets will appreciate it, I'm certain. I believe Charles will be accompanying you, but I'm sure you will excuse me. The events have left me with a state of my nerves that is too uncertain to wish to inflict it upon others. Georgiana, you can stay behind with me, if you wish – _you _have no particular tie to the Bennets." She said, in a manner resembling a well-bred lady.

_A pity she isn't one_ was the thought Simon kept to himself.

Mr. Darcy sounded annoyed as he replied, "Georgiana was the one who insisted we call on them today, though I would have gone eventually. She met Miss Elizabeth in Kent, as you know. Besides, the Bennets are grieving the loss of their daughter – it is the kind, charitable thing to do."

Miss Bingley responded in clear embarrassment and annoyance. "Yes, well. As I said – my health forbids it, or I should go as well. Do give my regards, Charles," she said, and with a rustle of fabric, Simon deduced she had left the room.

Mr. Bingley quietly mumbled, "I sometimes wonder how it is her heart beats, but has no evidence there is feeling in it." Simon quite agreed but did not hear the master respond. Mr. Bingley then offered Mr. Darcy some port. Simon was not surprised to hear the master decline – he was typically a rather sober man, and Simon was somewhat relieved to hear the decline. _Surely whatever troubles the master cannot be as bad as all that_.

Later, however, Simon had cause to rethink that when he overheard Georgiana's maid Phoebe quietly talking with a Netherfield stable boy. "Oh, Miss Georgiana is excessively worried about Mr. Darcy. First, the master somehow managed to get dirty enough to change his clothes in the morning!" Simon felt slightly guilty for that, but the maid continued. "Then he just picked at his lunch, barely ate a crumb, and it was pheasant, which is his favorite! Miss Georgiana was glad Colonel Fitzwilliam decided to make his call with them. Then they got there and oh! The sensible relations were not immediately available, and the few people there were all collywobbles, so the master had to make all the introductions three times over, which he hates. That's when they all found out there would be a service tomorrow for that girl – what's her name? Miss Eliza? And then the master came home, and now he's getting well foxed!"

"Who _is _she, anyway? Some relation?"

"I'm sure _I _don't know, but if you ask _me_, when that Miss Eliza visited Pemberley, _I _think the master was a bit sweet on her."

Simon's eyes widened at this idea. He cast his memory back – yes, now he could remember the day Miss Elizabeth had visited Pemberley. The master had not been expected, he had arrived a day early from his travels, and yes, as Simon now recollected, Mr. Darcy had indeed spent quite a bit of time seeking out the path Miss Elizabeth had taken.

_Ah, then the roses are a testament of his love for her_. Simon nodded to himself, and went to bed, inwardly marveling that, even in death, life always seemed to have a few quiet surprises of its own in store.


	3. Chapter 3: Withering

Chapter Three: Withering

**June 26, 1814**

_Hertfordshire_

Charles Bingley sighed as he walked into Netherfield from the service for Miss Elizabeth. He watched in consternation as his sister insincerely pleaded a headache and went to her bedroom – but, then, Charles was a little surprised she had come at all. _I suppose she thought it would have made her look like the heartless harpy she is. _The moment she left, he looked at Richard and Georgiana. Finding the same concerned expression in each set of eyes, they went to a different bedroom. Richard opened the door and it swung open without effort.

The scene in front of them made Bingley go wide-eyed. Darcy, an ever active and sober man, was lying on his bed in the middle of the day, surrounded with empty bottles. They all three approached his bed.

"Darcy, what on earth is the matter with you?" Charles asked.

Georgiana gently squeezed her brother's hands. "Fitzwilliam, we all care for you and do not wish to see you like this, but we cannot help you if we do not know what is wrong."

"You'll feel better, Darcy," Richard commented, leaning against one of the bedposts.

"If you have seen her grave site, then you surely have some inkling," Darcy sighed. Bingley had seen the site covered with roses, and nobody at the service seemed quite sure where they came from. He was quickly enlightened.

"Those _were _the Pemberley roses then, brother?" Georgiana asked.

"Simon assisted, but I placed the bushes myself." Bingley raised an eyebrow at this, but held his peace. His friend was clearly hurting - it was not time to quibble.

"Come, Darcy. I think you had better tell us the whole of it," Richard enjoined.

"I dislike that idea very much," Darcy said. "Since, at the end of my tale, I will have lost the respect of those nearest me and possibly a good friend. I have acted," he said, looking at Georgiana, "like a great fool and with very poor manners."

"I don't think there's much that you could do that would lose _my _friendship Darcy," Bingley said, surprised at the very idea.

Darcy only gave him a grim smile in return. "I would wait until you hear the whole of it before you render that verdict, Charles. Even you might not be so inclined to forgiveness then."

"Then tell us the whole of it," Bingley said. "The truth shall set you free – I think _that's_ Plato."

"It is Scripture," Darcy mumbled. He again glanced at Georgiana.

"Brother, you _know _I love you. If you do not tell me, I will spend a great deal of time worrying about what it _could _be and that will surely be worse than my knowing the truth."

Darcy sat up and admitted defeat in a single shrug of one shoulder. "Very well. I believe I must begin with a summary of my time in Hertfordshire. When I first arrived, Bingley will testify that I was in no mood for company, especially not with the gossip of the typical estimations of my worth which I believe were around the room within ten minutes of my arrival."

"How much did they guess this time?" Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ten thousand a year." Bingley was puzzled at the snort from Richard and a blink of surprise from Georgiana. "It is rather more, but I knew it would sound sufficient to the countryside," Darcy explained. "As I said, I was in even a less social mood than usual, and I made a few comments about the company and about one woman in particular that I meant for them and for her especially to overhear."

Richard voiced his curiosity. "Which woman and what did you say?"

"I told him he should dance with the other women in the room," Bingley said, as the memory of the night flashed upon him.

"Yes. And for good reason – he was dancing with Miss Bennet. I gave him to understand that I was above my company and that he was dancing with the only beautiful woman in the room. He offered to introduce me to one of her sisters. I took one look and told him that the girl was only tolerable, not handsome enough to tempt me. But Bingley was correct – for the woman was Miss Elizabeth."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, cousin, did the lack of light in the room leave you blind in the eyes?"

"Don't start, Richard," Darcy said, but Bingley could detect no rancor, only weariness.

"Well, having got off to such a famous start, I dare say you were well on your way to a better acquaintance with the lady," Richard sarcastically replied.

"Despite my early determination to dislike her, I soon discovered her fine eyes and sharp wit. But I doubt we would have furthered the acquaintance very much at all, had it not been for Miss Bennet coming to Netherfield and catching a cold from an unexpected rainstorm. The next morning, Miss Elizabeth came to the door and, in her haste to see her sister, she did not condescend to waste time over her dress and hair after walking three miles in the countryside."

Georgiana gasped a little. "Oh, she must have been something to see, after walking three miles in the mud and the dirt."

"She was, indeed, a sight to see. She would never have been admitted to Almack's or even Grovesner Street – and yet, the exercise had brightened her eyes and flushed her face." Darcy paused a moment before saying, in a tone Bingley had never before heard from his friend, "The effect was . . . memorable."

"And after _that_, you began wooing fair maiden?" Richard asked.

"No. That might have been the intelligent thing to do," Darcy said, passing a hand over his face. "I, of course, did the complete opposite. After that, we started arguing about everything under the sun."

"Fitzwilliam!" Georgiana cried, now truly shocked. "You were not . . . uncivil?"

"Uncivil and combative. I told you that I had very poor manners, sister. But you will be delighted to hear that Miss Elizabeth was not impolite, yet still held her own."

"I remember that. She had absolutely no fear of him, Georgiana," Bingley said. "Not even on a Sunday afternoon when it was raining, and he had nothing to do. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone else speak to your brother that way."

"Yes, I heard a piece of it in Kent. It was absolutely incomparable," Richard said.

Charles caught the smile Richard had and was sure it matched his own. Somewhat shortly, Darcy continued, "Indeed. And truly, Georgiana, it was more in the vein of friendly sparring – or thus I understood it. I even thought she might be using contrariness as part of a scheme of allurement, so I studiously ignored her the last day she was at Netherfield."

Georgiana shook her head a bit, but said, "And then?"

"Then Bingley gave his ball and I danced with her." Darcy paused, clearly savoring the memory, before adding, "We argued some more –"

"Naturally. That _is _what one _does_ at a ball when dancing with a beautiful woman you admire, after all," Richard's sarcasm again filled the room.

"She espoused vile lies from a worthless rogue. I defended myself only."

"A worthless rogue?" Georgiana asked. "Who on earth – oh. Wickham, of course." Bingley was suddenly _quite _glad he had cut the acquaintance as Darcy had suggested.

"That scheming mongrel grows quite tiresome," Richard growled. "I would have thought Miss Elizabeth's intelligence above his calumny."

"Apparently, his flattering tongue bought _him _favor." Darcy was clearly struggling, unsuccessfully, to keep the acerbity out of his voice. "As I discovered in Kent."

"Is _that _what you quarreled about the day before we left, then?" Richard asked, eyebrow raised.

"In part. But before _that_, I participated in a scheme I am not proud of. I unjustly separated Bingley from her sister, which he knows, but I did not tell him that I purposefully conspired with Miss Bingley to conceal Miss Bennet's presence from him in London, and Miss Elizabeth somehow found out."

Bingley stared at Darcy. "You did _what_?"

"That was her _sister_?" Richard was shocked also. He whistled. "I think I owe _you _an apology, Darcy. I was the one who told her that; I did not know the names, but she must have guessed from my recounting the events. I was trying to prove your concern for your friends."

Darcy shook his head, hand over his face. "Had I not stooped to deception, there would have been nothing for her to find out." He looked at Bingley. "I beg your pardon – it was ill done and, in light of current events, will perforce delay any efforts of mine to make amends for at least a year."

Stunned at the behavior of a friend he had ever considered the definition of moral rectitude, Bingley shook his head. "I am not sure I understand _why _you felt it was _necessary_. I _can_ look after myself, you know."

"I know. Believe me, I know. Better than I can look after my own affairs," Darcy said. "I have no excuse – only worthless apologies."

"That is _quite _a quarrel to have with a woman you admire, cousin," Richard said, dragging Darcy back to the conversation. "Still – I have heard of worse being overcome."

Darcy placed his face in both hands now and asked, "During a proposal in which the man also felt the need to energetically enumerate the reasons the marriage should _not _take place?"

"Well, no, but surely no man making an offer for Miss Elizabeth would be _that _stupid." Richard looked askance at his cousin. "No, Darcy, not even _you_ would do that, _surely_."

"Not only did I do so, I had the vanity to believe she was awaiting my offer with eagerness. But she was not."

"She turned you _down_?" Bingley raised his voice with Richard and Georgiana in simultaneous incredulity.

"Passionately and emphatically. I believe the last words she paid me in Kent were that I was the last man in the world she could be prevailed upon to marry. Since I later discovered she had some weeks prior rejected an offer from Mr. Collins that did not, it would seem, differ substantially in essence from mine, I believe you can draw the appropriate conclusions."

After a moment of silence, Richard spoke. "So, to conclude – you insulted her from the moment you met, tried to ignore her, interfered in her sister's happiness, gave her no reason to think well of you, let a vile cur whisper honeyed words in her ear, debased her worth to her as you were making her an _offer_, and then expected her to joyfully accept your suit _anyway_?"

"Many other women would have," Darcy grumbled. _Like Caroline_, Bingley thought, but did not say. Darcy went on, "Especially with her lack of fortune, connections, and some of the wildest sisters this side of England."

"She turned down Mr. Collins, who would have secured Longbourn for her family. She turned _you _down, who offered at least ten thousand a year and Pemberley besides. I begin to think Miss Elizabeth Bennet might jolly well turn down his majesty if _he _made an offer," Richard could not seem to help his tone of amusement.

"Hold on, you and Miss Elizabeth _did _seem to get along well enough at Pemberley," Bingley said, after a moment of thought.

"Oh-ho, I did not hear the details of _this_," Richard said, standing up straight. "Tell me of this visit."

"There is not much to tell," Darcy said, shifting a bit on the bed and looking away. "She came on a trip to Lambton with her aunt and uncle; we met at Pemberley by chance. That is where she agreed to meet Georgiana."

"You have _got _to be the _luckiest _sot I've _ever_ heard of," Richard said, giving Darcy a disgusted look. "She just . . . forgave you?"

"I . . . wrote a letter, defending myself," Darcy sheepishly admitted. "Though that, too, was written more for strife than wooing."

"Of _course _it was," Richard said, rolling his eyes. "What _else_ is a letter to the woman you admire _for_, except to continue arguing with her? I suppose _that _is what you wanted me to speak to her about while I took my leave in Kent, though the lady never showed. Well, but what happened in Pemberley?"

"She left unexpectedly before anything happened. Her younger sister . . ."

"I say, Darcy, how much of a hand did you have in _that_ business?" Richard's keen observational skills surprised Bingley almost as much as the answer did.

"More than I would have preferred," Darcy drily replied. "Though it was not for sake of bride nor groom that I interfered in _that_."

"Which means you settled the debts and ensured the marriage went off, whatever _that _entailed," Richard said, raising an eyebrow. "But surely when Miss Elizabeth learned of _that_ –"

"I ensured she did _not_, that _none _of her immediate family did, save the sister in question." Silence again filled the room until Darcy continued, "I was _not _interested in her _gratitude_."

"Oh, for the love of –" Richard stopped himself, shaking his head, and rubbing his face.

"Brother," Georgiana softly spoke, placing her hand on his arm. "I think our cousin may have a point. If you never let Miss Elizabeth see all your wonderful qualities, then how could she know what kind of man you truly are?"

"It no longer matters how she sees me, Georgiana." Darcy said it softly and quietly, but a hush again fell over the room. "I will need to return to Pemberley and . . . continue on. For you and me. As best I can, anyway."

"You are a _good _man, Fitzwilliam," Georgiana said this with conviction. And even though Bingley was shaken by his friend's deception, with the look on Georgiana's face, he would not argue. She softly added, "But, yes – I think it is time we go home."


	4. Chapter 4: Every Sort of Disguise

Chapter Four: Every Sort of Disguise

**July 11, 1814**

_Derbyshire_

In the conservatory, Georgiana was practicing the pianoforte, waiting for her brother to finish the estate business. After the death of both their parents, her brother had always insisted that she know _something _about the affairs, enough to manage should _unfortunate events _occur, as he put it. As if losing her parents were the same as misplacing a pelisse or the prospect of losing her brother in the same category as breaking a hair comb and not the utter devastation it had been and could be. But even knowing as much as she did was considered _unnatural female behavior _by some (like Aunt Catherine, for example, despite the fact that Georgiana was _certain _her ladyship must know the business of Rosings much better than she let on). Nevertheless, for the sake of harmony, she and her brother kept up a pretense of her ignorance in front of the servants and everyone else except their cousin Richard. As her other guardian, Richard had approved of the plan and was himself, at her brother's insistence, also at least _somewhat _knowledgeable of the Pemberley estate, should _unfortunate events _occur.

She heard the sound of James bringing the correspondence, a sign that business was concluded, and saw only three letters on the silver tray as he glided by. _It won't be long now_, she thought, and continued practicing in front of Mrs. Annesley as if she hadn't noticed. And it wasn't as if practicing the pianoforte was unpleasant for Georgiana. Mostly, she enjoyed it very much. It was something she could do well and it often helped her process difficult events or emotions. Right now, though, it didn't seem to be having the usual effect. Georgiana suspected that was because just at present, she was much more concerned about Fitzwilliam than about her playing.

He had been absolutely miserable the past three weeks or so. He struggled manfully to hide it, of course. She had seen the forlorn looks out the windows, the soft sighs when he thought he was alone, and the drawn lines on his face. Even though she saw his distress and was troubled, she had said nothing, because any brother more than a decade older than his sister would not want to burden her. He would think it his duty to bear as much responsibility as possible on his own. And Fitzwilliam never, ever shirked his duty or responsibility.

_Miss Elizabeth Bennet aside, perhap_s, Georgiana thought. Then again, Miss Elizabeth had been a breath of fresh air. She was so _different _from women like Miss Bingley, who saw her brother as prey to catch, or women like their cousin Anne, who were born and bred for fashion's sake and taught never to express a single opinion of their own. Miss Elizabeth had not been in either of _those _categories and for that alone, even without her brother's approval, Georgiana thought she could have loved her. Indeed, Georgiana had been so _glad _to meet Miss Elizabeth, if somewhat surprised her brother would pay so much attention to someone without much money or social standing. But Miss Elizabeth was everything Fitzwilliam had said first in his letters and then in conversation; she was warm, witty, and wise, graced with a gentle smile, and fine, expressive eyes.

And then, their acquaintance had been cut short by that dreadful accident. It wasn't fair - not fair at all. Georgiana had had some rather uncharacteristically uncharitable thoughts about the fact that _nice _women like Miss Elizabeth died while perfectly horrid ones like Miss Bingley yet lived. And given Fitzwilliam's shocking revelation - that he had _offered _for her, had been rejected (for at least _some _good reason, as incredible as it seemed!), then met her again unexpectedly and had used his opportunity to carefully cultivate the faintest sliver of hope, only to have it cruelly ripped away once more - well, Georgiana could only guess at _his_ heartbreak. She was saddened enough to lose the prospect of such a sister. _She would have brought laughter back to the halls of Pemberley. _And now, in place of that unheard laughter, there was mournful silence from Fitzwilliam and only the sound of the pianoforte that Georgiana could produce.

Several moments later, though she had not heard any noise, Georgiana instinctively looked up to see her brother standing at the doorway, leaning to one side, his eyes closed. Where his thoughts were, she did not truly know, but given the fact that his face looked at least a _little _less pained, she had a good guess. She continued playing all the way to the end of the song, to give him what little comfort she could, before she called out and interrupted his thoughts.

"Fitzwilliam?"

He unwillingly opened his eyes and gave his best smile. It wasn't terribly convincing. "Yes, Georgie?" He asked, coming near her.

"You looked content there for just a moment." She touched his arm just a second.

"Your playing improves greatly, dearest."

"I don't think you were concentrating on that just now, brother, but I thank you anyway." She said it gently, so her brother knew she was not trying to force his confidence. _Not that you could do such a thing with him. If he's ready to tell you, he will, and if he's not, he won't! _"Did you finish your correspondence?"

"I answered two letters out of the three. Bingley's letter was just plain news of Hertfordshire, so I will finish it another time. The other two were about the same concern, something I came to discuss with you."

"Oh? What is it? You look so serious again."

Fitzwilliam looked somewhat intense as he asked, "Have _you _ever heard of Lady Violet, Duchess of Marlborough?"

Georgiana searched her memory before shaking her head and saying, "No – why?"

"Apparently, she has been living on the Continent until recently. Having been widowed a little more than a year ago, the war has seen her now arrive at Blenheim Palace in Oxford. Though she's only been there a few days, she has managed to send out invitations to a weeklong masquerade for the peerage and the important members of the _ton_. Even the royal family has indicated they plan to attend. James has informed me that with the war going on, it would have to be very _singular _business on the Continent to take me away, since I've received an invitation. If only for _your _sake, for your coming out in a year or two, I believe I must go."

"I am sorry to cause you so much unhappiness," Georgiana said, her eyes a bit misty. "I know you would rather not go."

"You are correct – I would _rather _not. But, _you_, my dear, do _not _bring me unhappiness. Never think that, Georgie. You are one of the joys of my life."

"Well, thank you, brother," she said with a blush. "But you said the other letter related to the same thing?"

"Yes. Richard sent me a letter, telling me I would get an invitation and that some odd rumors are circulating regarding this duchess. He wrote that exactly what the scandal is, nobody seems to agree – some say her husband died in mysterious circumstances, others have suggested she does not have the fortune she ought to have – but everyone seems to agree that there is something very odd about her sudden appearance and a great deal of mystery surrounding not just her, but the masque as well. At first glance, it all _seems _perfectly reasonable. That line often gets passed through a female and they are typically educated on the Continent. Then other questions not so easily answered arise, such as how does a woman, so recently back from living on the Continent, become honored by the presence of royalty at her first endeavor?"

"Rumors are not everything, Fitzwilliam," Georgiana gently replied. "It might be just a bunch of _ton _gossip, spread by those envious of the honor."

"Perhaps. There was not even a whiff of oddness about the invitation – in fact, it had all the hallmarks of a woman who was not especially clever. Lady Violet used _violets _to scent it, if you can believe such an obvious choice," Fitzwilliam said, rolling his eyes. "But Richard told me to watch my back – which is not a warning he gives lightly. And _that _is the reason I would rather not go, dearest. Beyond my usual reticence and my reluctance for such schemes, I would much rather be here with you, than be mired in a weeklong masquerade filled with possible intrigue, avoiding dances, and looking for potential suitors who could not possibly be worthy of you."

Georgiana blushed again before asking, with a tone of gentle concern, "You're not going to dance? The entire time? That will look rather singular at a weeklong masquerade."

"I imagine it will, but I must go to the wretched thing, and I find the idea of dancing entirely insupportable just at present."

Given the weary, bleary look upon his face, Georgiana decided not to press further. Instead, she asked, "Did you want help with your costumes, brother?"

"I would indeed appreciate your assistance, Georgie. I believe there are some clothes in storage, and I will need help determining which to update, which to leave behind, and if I have sufficient attire for a week."

The two siblings did indeed find a wealth of clothes in storage, consisting of cast offs from relatives, parents, and items no longer in fashion. Usually, she and Fitzwilliam donated older items to servants or the rag pile, but there always seemed to be a pile or two of clothing laying around regardless. She and her brother began picking through them. The disguise of a soldier was easily chosen for his first costume, as Richard had plenty of extra red coats that would fit with little alteration. Fitzwilliam also found an old judge outfit and wig that would easily suit his purpose. "I would like at least _one _extraordinary costume, as I believe the invitation said there will be prizes for it on the last evening – something a little less every day," he said, thoughtfully eyeing the selection. "And I need four other costumes as well – perhaps mundane, but less obvious choices."

"And masks too, of course," Georgiana said, also looking thoughtful.

"Yes, but it will be easier to pick those once I know the costumes." He paused, then with a mischievous look, said, "I could always go as the very devil."

"Fitzwilliam!" Georgiana laughed at his sly grin.

"No, you're right, too much to the point. I think a harlequin an unusual enough choice. Will there be time to prepare such a costume, do you think? The masque is in a week." At Georgiana's look of uncertainty, her brother abandoned the idea. "No, I see the trouble that would cause. There are rags enough here – I believe I will go as a beggar one evening. That should be unbelievable enough. I would not want to risk annoying or insulting the royal family by appearing as one of them. Oh, here's a dark suit and cape – and I believe there's a scythe in the stables. I shall go as the grim reaper."

"That's a bit morbid, brother."

"It will be just the thing for me, then, on the sixth day when I am inexpressibly weary to be back here," he replied, drily. "Two other costumes and one extraordinary one left."

"What about a priest? That's simple enough and not likely to be guessed."

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Very well, I'll be a priest, though I have no notion of who would come to _my _parish. And here's a grand cape. I believe that and one of my old staffs will do for a wizard. But now, for something _extraordinary_."

Georgiana got a thoughtful look in her eye. "I have an idea, brother." She told him and he raised an eyebrow.

"Can it be prepared in a week?"

"Oh, yes," Georgiana said, with a smile. "It is too perfect for you not to have it, so I shall make certain it is ready in time. I'm sure Mrs. Annesley will help me."

"As you have it, sister. I will go see about the masks, then."

"And I about the extraordinary costume and the other alterations for your wardrobe," Georgiana said, with a smile. "Once you get there, it might almost be fun. You may even enjoy yourself, you know." At the grimace on his face, Georgiana could not resist saying, "You might even dance!"

"I would not hold out hope for _that_."


	5. Chapter 5: Intelligence

Chapter Five: Intelligence

**July 14, 1814**

_London_

Richard cursed aloud as he exited yet another inn. Those who knew him well would have been quite surprised for, though he was an army man, Richard was not given to an excess of vulgar language in his private life. In this case, it was a direct expression of the very black mood that was hanging upon him. He was unused to leaving inns without being well foxed and quite content with the world. Now, he was having to frequently do without both, spending his time and money on the pursuit of nonexistent information, and he was becoming quite unhappy about it. _My beloved cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy will most definitely owe me an entire bottle of brandy for this. Maybe even two bottles of the illegal French stuff, _he thought, as he saddled and prepared his horse.

When he had received Darcy's letter requesting any verifiable information regarding her grace Lady Violet Marlborough, Richard had thought himself easily equal to that task. His cousin did not call him an old fishwife for nothing. Had Richard any taste for politics, he had little doubt he could have made some inroads on the backs of some seriously scandalous blackmail. A duchess might be _slightly _more protected than other members of the peerage, but everyone loved to gossip about the faults of their superiors. And duchesses were hardly immune from moral failings. Despite Richard's early assurance, his confidence in this ability had died a slow death several days and many inns ago. Richard was no longer certain of his connections nor of much regarding the mysterious duchess.

_ Nobody can tell me a blessed single thing regarding her life - not her time on the Continent, not how she became the duchess of Marlborough, not what her parents were like, not how long she was married, not how her husband died, not how she met royalty, and not even a verifiable rumor or a single shred of scandal. _Richard privately wondered if the last missing information was the most damning piece of all. The rest might be explained by the war. It was certainly difficult enough to confirm or deny anything outside of England at the moment. But _everyone _in the peerage had secrets to hide - affairs, debts, backstabbing, blackmail, by-blows, and even a case or two of murder were common knowledge and commonplace. Richard had long ago found whose ear to whisper into and whose palm to cross, should he find himself in need of such information. But with this duchess, there was simply nothing. It was as if she had never even existed prior coming to Blenheim Palace. And Richard was coming to the end of even his extensive resources.

He mounted his horse and thought for a moment. _There is one other rogue I know whose perfidy would not be above having a hand in either creating or blackmailing a false duchess_. He grimaced to himself as he shifted in the saddle. The prospect of actually having to _investigate _such a thing was most unpleasant. The company he would have to keep and the money he would have to pay were an appalling anathema to him. But Richard could simply not imagine telling his cousin Darcy that he had completely failed in his mission. And he could think of no other solution.

"Come on, Agamemnon," Richard said, holding his horse to a walk while they were in town. "I think we better go north and have ourselves a little chat with an old acquaintance." Richard's horse nickered and the two began the trek. Fortunately for his safety, Richard found a regiment to travel with. Though perfectly ready to meet any trouble, Richard was still not anxious to attract the attention of any highwaymen. Over the next few days, Richard made increasingly desperate stops and inquiries at what felt like every place with the unmitigated cheek to call itself a pub. The regiment he traveled with certainly enjoyed it, but for Richard, it was a pointless, fruitless search which Richard knew full well before the start would be a pointless, fruitless search. That knowledge did not stop him from getting quite cross as he neared the north and learned nothing he did not know already.

Richard arrived in Durham two days after Darcy's masquerade had started. He was tired, sore, and in no fit mood to speak to even a friend, let alone the vile cur he had to treat with now. He stabled his horse (if you could call it a stable) and immediately made his way to the militia's tents. The dust on the road seemed to stick to his boots, which did not improve Richard's temper in the slightest. Almost immediately, Richard was moderately relieved to meet Colonel Whitehall, a man of good sense and fair judgment, though somewhat severe. He was glad Darcy had entrusted the oversight of Wickham to such a man.

Richard's relief was short lived. After the appropriate socially polite observances, Richard saw no reason to disguise his goal for knowledge of the blackguard he had so reluctantly come to face. "Excuse me, Colonel Whitehall. I am hoping you are the commanding officer of a Mr. George Wickham, who would have arrived here not long ago. I am hoping to hear some news of him and perhaps speak with him briefly. Or if not him, perhaps I could have a moment of time with Mrs. Wickham."

"Yes, the Wickham family _was _here," Colonel Whitehall growled. "An event for which I am not certain I can ever forgive your cousin, Mr. Darcy."

Richard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. _That sounds like it's going to be expensive for Darcy. "_What did he do and where did he go _this _time?"

"At first, with his charming manners and her liveliness, they were great favorites of everyone. But he has run up substantial debts of honor among the other men, even in his short time he was here. A worse card player I never saw. His wife was cut of the same cloth, constantly buying bonnets and lace in the stores on credit. He was almost a libertine with all the women and his wife scarcely less a flirt with the men. Whoever matched them surely did it well, for I never saw such a couple so joined in their less honorable pursuits."

Richard winced. _Bloody hell - how did Miss Elizabeth end up related to such a sister? Miss Elizabeth would never have even thought of being involved in such things! And why did my cousin have to get mixed up in it? Is falling in love always so difficult? _"And so? What became of them?"

"And so it came out from his own mouth that this Wickham had some connections of fortune - Mr. Darcy included, as I understand it. So the other men got to pressing for the debts of honor, as army men are want to do. And one morning, just the other day in fact, the company and the town awoke to find that the two of them had vanished into the foggy mist. Good riddance to both of them, as far as we're concerned, except for the shortage of money. I was thinking of writing the minister of Derbyshire . . ."

With a sigh and without much hope, Richard asked, "Did he or his wife happen to mention where they were going?" At Colonel Whitehall's shake of the head, Richard asked, "Did either happen to mention a duchess, Lady Violet Marlborough of Blenheim Palace?"

Colonel Whitehall gave Richard a puzzled look. "Now that you mention it, Wickham said something about a duchess in Oxford, but none of us took him very seriously by that point, I'm afraid. For any man in the militia to have an acquaintance with a duchess would be quite singular, especially a man like George Wickham."

_All right, Wickham. Now I know for certain you have a hand in this, somehow. I know not what scheme you have planned, but be assured that I shall not hesitate to inform Darcy immediately. He will know what to do, or at least he shall not be uninformed that you still mean to meddle in his affairs. _"Thank you, Colonel Whitehall, I believe that is all the information I need. Are there any express riders available at this hour?"

Hearing a most expected negative to this question, but learning one would be available early tomorrow, Richard thanked the man and gave him the address of Darcy's steward for the debts of the Wickhams. He knew, without asking, that if he did not see to it, Darcy himself would. _My cousin scarcely needs an additional burden to take on at this moment_, Richard thought. _He has taken on quite enough responsibility for ten lifetimes. _As usual, Richard felt vaguely guilty he could not be of more use, somehow.

Sitting down in the dusty inn, Richard contrived to write a letter that his cousin would understand and that would not be read amiss if it so happened to be intercepted by her grace Lady Violet Marlborough.

_Darcy - _

_As you requested, I have played the part of fishwife by visiting various ponds up and down the coast of our fair country, hoping to find any information I might on the new fish you are now observing. The most notable thing I found was a complete absence, a nothingness that I have never before found for any special catch. Empty nets might mean a false specimen, but the troubled waters abroad may be cause enough. It is difficult to say, but the lack of information on even any disease has me wondering how true a fish you may have in your nets._

_It seemed so much a piece of his past work, that I thought our mutual acquaintance in the north, the one who you made all those arrangements about his mate for, might prove a better source of intelligence; unfortunately, his absence, along with his mate's, made inquiry difficult. An acquaintance of his has advised that he has apparently made tracks for a better fishing hole. Good riddance to bad rubbish (unless he is headed your way!). Of course, before he left, he made his usual trouble (which I have been so bold as to put right. There is an example of what might be achieved when done at your expense! I will also be submitting some small bills of my own for the travel, so small that I am certain you will not cavil)._

_I also received word from the same source that before he left, he made note of this new species of yours. He apparently hoped to find it quite valuable, though if that is so, his exit seems quite mysterious. I question whether even he is so bold as to fish nearer Oxford, with all the rare species about, or if he simply vanished to avoid the usual repercussions that come from poor fishing management._

_I trust I scarcely need to reiterate my previous message regarding the care needing to be taken when trawling unknown depths and handling a fish of the rarity you have. With his disappearance, I feel I should add my concern that you should also have a care our mutual acquaintance does not take advantage of any opportunity to cause further trouble, if he is knowledgeable of this species in Oxford. Now more than ever, I have no desire to take over the management of your fishing ponds in Derbyshire!_

_Yours,_

_&etc_

Richard sighed as he finished the letter, filled with blots and words crossed out. He knew his cousin had been given enough intelligence to garner the relevant information from Richard's codes and guarded words. He sincerely hoped that, if the duchess did happen to intercept it, she was truly the lackwit his cousin had judged her to be. _Even if she _**_is _**_clever, she might recognize herself, but I defy the cleverest schemer in England to realize I mean Wickham, even if she is in league with him! _Richard nevertheless took the time to write a clean copy, sand it, and prepare it for the early express tomorrow.

As he prepared for bed, Richard decided he would follow the letter himself, just in case his cousin _did _end up needing a pistol upon the occasion of meeting a duchess.


	6. Chapter 6: Transient

Chapter Six: Transient

**June 20, 1814 - (**On the evening of the day Darcy entered the churchyard)

_?_

Riding in yet another stuffy carriage in the dead of night, hurtling towards an unknown location while hitting what felt like every stone and hole in the road, a cloaked figure sat alone in the vehicle, hood pulled forward, curtains drawn, shaken and unsettled. Having spent several days traveling in such a manner, stopping only at empty inns to switch horses and be fed crusts of bread, the usual courage the figure possessed had begun to fail and it could make no sense of the events that had arranged the current conveyance. It was a mystery, and must remain a mystery a little longer still.

The figure began to drum thin, elegant fingers on its knee – the hands were soft and cared for, though without jewels or rings. If anyone else had been riding along, they might have thought the figure displayed a surprising amount of tranquility, especially under the given circumstances, unless they had been unusually perceptive in seeing that the cloak hid a growing tension in the lithe frame.

The carriage slid to a stop in front of a house so nondescript, it was remarkable for that very plainness alone. The driver helped the figure out of the carriage and escorted it to the door of the house. "Where am I?" The figure demanded.

The driver did not answer, merely opened the door and thrust his charge through it. With a highly impertinent bow and not a single word, he closed the door and quickly left with a now empty carriage.

The cloaked figure, however, no longer paid any attention to the driver or his uncivil behavior. Inside the house, the door opened into a room full of grand opulence – gold leaf, expensive furniture, the latest wall paper, and something else much harder to define that gave the room a palpable feeling of importance. It was so luxurious, the figure felt a bit breathless and extremely out of place. _This chamber would very well put every last room at Rosings and Pemberley to shame_. But that penetrating thought was the only one the figure had time for before a solid oak door creaked open and the hooded figure turned, then gasped and took a step back in shock.

An entirely different figure stepped through the door, one not closely wrapped in an old, tattered, smelly cloak. He wore extravagant clothes, embroidered in gold, with equally fine cravat, jewels, and shoes, and just in case the hooded figure had remained in any doubt, a thin gold crown rested easily on his head. He moved with confidence and power into the room. The cloaked figure just managed to do the deepest curtsey possible without tripping, hoping it would not be called to task for the display.

The crown prince (for thus it was) came over to the other figure and bowed gallantly. "May we take your cloak, my lady?" Without pausing to wait for an answer, he removed the hood and cloak to reveal a young woman with brown curls, tidy though somewhat loose after traveling so long, and a set of fine, frightened, green eyes. With another bow, his majesty addressed her.

"May we presume we have the honor and pleasure of speaking with Miss Elizabeth Abigail Bennet of Hertfordshire, second daughter of Mr. Thomas Andrew Bennet, the master of Longbourn?"

"Yes, your majesty," Elizabeth replied, not knowing what to make of this clandestine and unwanted meeting with the prince regent in the dead of night, with her alone and unescorted. "I am she." She kept her eyes downcast in the manner of a gently bred woman in the presence of royalty. _And also as a woman who is scared out of her mind and would rather not show it. What is he doing here? What am I doing here in his presence? Where is this place? _Elizabeth fought a bout of hysterical laughter.

"You must be hungry, thirsty, and tired after your long journey. We suspect you also have a lot of questions. Unfortunately, our time is short tonight, so we are afraid that instead of being hospitable, we must proceed to the purpose of our meeting. Miss Elizabeth, we understand you speak, read, and write French fluently, is that quite correct?"

"Yes, your majesty," Elizabeth replied, in French.

"Excellent. And you understand, we are sure, that we are currently at war with France?"

At that question, Elizabeth decided it would be most impolitic to continue answering the prince regent in French, so she returned to English. "Of course, your majesty."

"And may we assume even a gently bred woman such as yourself has at least a basic understanding of what a spy is, Miss Elizabeth?"

At this, at last, Elizabeth dared to look up. Some suspicion regarding the purpose of this assignation was beginning to occur to her and, though she had certainly spent enough time wondering at the ultimate objective while being shuffled into and out of various carriages, she was not, it must be said, very gratified to finally discover the truth. But remembering whose presence she was in, she still elected to answer the question with care. "I have read a few novels featuring spies, your majesty, though I am certain they are highly romantic depictions of what must be very difficult and uncertain employment."

The prince quirked an eyebrow. "Miss Elizabeth, we are giving you an opportunity to find out for yourself if the novels are true."

Elizabeth could not help staring in astonishment. "Excuse me, your majesty, but I am not sure I take your meaning. You want _me _to be a _spy_?"

"Miss Elizabeth, it has come to our attention that you are a clever woman of uncommon courage, fluent in French, gently bred, and loyal to England, of course. We also understand that you have some _unique _talent in the instruction of chess. It is such a woman we have undeniable need of for an assignment. In this terrible war, your king and your country need you."

As politely as possible and mindful that she had no desire to actually risk the wrath of a member of the royal family, Elizabeth nevertheless attempted to extricate herself from the situation. "Your majesty, there must be many such women in England," she said, averting her eyes again. "I hardly think _I_ would merit any special attention. I have no fortune, no connections, and very little in the way of actual schooling to recommend me."

"Not so many as you might think, Miss Elizabeth. And in war, my dear, it is often necessary to use the resources you have at hand in unusual ways, including the resource of royal subjects. We dare say you would be shocked at the number of parlor maids and footmen in our service. But that is not to the point. Regardless of the number of women there may be who fulfill these qualifications, after taking more care in the process of selection than it would interest or benefit you to know, we have chosen you."

_That does _**_not _**_sound like a request_, Elizabeth noted. Her curiosity warred with her temper, but fortunately for Elizabeth, curiosity won out. "I see. And what would you have me do, your majesty?"

The prince looked slightly relieved. "We would like you to retrieve three things – a document, a name, and a precious piece of jewelry."

"And this is the reason you have abducted me, fabricated a carriage accident, produced a counterfeit body, and spirited me to where I could not say – to simulate the appearance of my death to my family and friends, your majesty? So I could not easily refuse and so I could become a spy in your service? For a document, a name, and jewelry?" Elizabeth's eyes narrowed.

"Precisely so, Miss Elizabeth. All unfortunate but necessary parts of deceiving the enemy and of recruitment." There was a touch of a smile about the prince now as he gazed at her. "We are glad to find the reports we had did not overrate your cleverness."

"If I do as you require for this assignment, your majesty, I may return home?"

"If that is what you truly wish, Miss Elizabeth. If, however, you change your mind, we have little doubt we could find a place for you where your worth would be fully recognized, your service would be invaluable, and you would be well rewarded. You will be well rewarded for this assignment, too, of course."

"But if I stay, I would remain dead to my family and friends, your majesty?"

"It is much safer that way, Miss Elizabeth. For everyone involved and those who must remain uninvolved."

Elizabeth thought of those at Longbourn and grew grim. "As you say, your majesty," Elizabeth said. She squared her shoulders. "Very well, since I seem to have little choice in the matter, I will do as you ask for this assignment, but I do not promise more."

"That is all we ask, Miss Elizabeth." He clapped his hands and a prim looking older woman appeared. "Mrs. Morton, this is our guest – a young duchess who was abroad on the Continent until lately, Lady Violet as she will want to be called."

If Elizabeth was surprised that the prince already wanted her to respond to a false appellation, she had the sense not to show it. But she could not keep the surprise entirely off her face when Mrs. Morton curtseyed first. "Your grace."

_Of course – I am a member of the peerage. I now outrank Lady Catherine! I doubt she would refrain from giving her opinion on my piano playing, but perhaps she might now find it more tolerable to her ear. _Elizabeth curtseyed in return. "Mrs. Morton."

"Lady Violet, Mrs. Morton will help you get acclimated to the house and arrange the food, drink, and sleep you need and arrange for a modiste tomorrow afternoon to ensure you have all the appropriate fashion for a woman befitting your station. Tomorrow morning, I will send one of my ministers who will provide all the necessary information for the small request you have agreed to assist with."

"Yes, thank you, your majesty." Elizabeth curtseyed again as the prince left.

Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Morton, wondering just how much the lady knew. She decided if the prince regent had not seen fit to tell Mrs. Morton the true identity of Lady Violet, Elizabeth was certainly not going to be the one to do so. _And, really, the fewer people who know who I am and what I'm doing, the better. _Mrs. Morton led Elizabeth into a small dining room where a simple repast of turbot and wine were waiting. This room was not nearly so fine as the other, though it still had all the hallmarks of wealth and taste. _That room must be for official business and impressing those with a need to be impressed. But _**_this_**_ room looks like the ones at Pemberley and must be more commonly used._

Elizabeth ate alone, so she ate quickly. She knew not what to say to Mrs. Morton and that lady kept _her _eyes down cast, as was proper for a gentle woman in the presence of a duchess. Elizabeth checked her laugh – she was going to have to pretend to be used to being given the preference in such a way. _And all I had to do was have my own death disguised, be recruited as a spy by royalty, and pretend to be a duchess!_ When Elizabeth had finished eating, Mrs. Morton led her to a sumptuous bedroom. "Is it to your liking, your grace?"

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Morton."

"I'll send the maid in, your grace."

Elizabeth curtseyed in acknowledgment. When Mrs. Morton left, Elizabeth looked around at the rich furnishings and art, a small voice of panic rising in her at the feeling that she truly didn't belong here. She put it away when the maid came and helped Elizabeth prepare for bed. (Given that the prince regent had as much admitted to doing what must be called surveillance on her, Elizabeth could not say she was over surprised to find a trunk of everyday clothes and night clothes that loosely fit her in the room).

Elizabeth dismissed the maid and sat on the bed for a long while, simply thinking about her family and friends. She was not _too _worried about her youngest sisters. Lydia was married, after all – even if it _was _to one of the most worthless rogues in all England. Truthfully, Elizabeth was not sure her youngest sister would have missed her even if she had remained at home and unmarried. They had never been close or gotten along. Kitty and Mary also would miss her, but in a vague way, as they also had their own lives apart from Elizabeth. Her mother would have a fit of nerves that would likely last through the year of mourning the Bennets would go through. Elizabeth supposed her aunt and uncle the Phillips would also miss her, in their own way.

Elizabeth did not think Charlotte would be unaffected, even if she _was _married to that odious man Mr. Collins. Her aunt and uncle, the Gardiners, would certainly genuinely miss her, and their children would as well. Jane, however, would be truly devastated. Elizabeth could not think of being the cause of her dearest sister's pain with anything approaching equanimity. Nor could she think of how her father might feel without a sigh and a few shed tears. And as for her separation from Mr. Darcy . . . Elizabeth went to the window and pulled back one of the drapes to gaze at the moon, but found the sky covered with clouds so quickly closed it again. Before she went to try to sleep, she decided to do one more thing that she had not done since she was a child. She knelt beside the bed. _Dear God,_ she prayed, _please keep me safe. Also, comfort my family, friends, and Mr. Darcy until I return to them. Amen._


End file.
